


look me in the face (hold my gaze)

by Pinkmanite



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, M/M, Pining, alternative universe, call me by your name inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 16:58:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14898423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkmanite/pseuds/Pinkmanite
Summary: It’s a little weird, getting coached by his dad alongside some guy who’s already in the NHL, but Patrick goes with it, tries to learn a few things. Most of them are about his hockey, his play.Some of them... well.Some of them are not.





	look me in the face (hold my gaze)

**Author's Note:**

> Real quick, Patrick's age is never specified but he'd be around eighteen/nineteen, as the timeline begins the summer before his draft year, so he _is_ legally of age.

**** Jonny is the typical type, almost a carbon copy of every athlete that’s come here before him. Patrick knows instantly what to expect of him, what he’s going to be like. These guys come and go every summer, different ones every year, but it’s always the same thing: a nuisance.

It’s his dad’s little pet project, every summer without fail. It probably started out as his midlife crisis, a panicked attempt to keep hockey in his life after his retirement. No one could argue that he wasn’t a phenomenal player; anyone would be lucky to train under him.

So every year, Patrick’s NHL-retired father invites some budding young star — the signature on their contracts still wet — to their summer home, just to get coached one-on-one, to go under an intensive training regimen, to breathe and live nothing but hockey. 

When Patrick was younger, especially after his first few seasons away from home, he envied the guys that would come for the summer and steal his dad, hog up his team until there was none left for Patrick. But he’s older now, has grown used to it. Now it’s just annoying to have the extra presence in his home, forcing him out of his own room and into the tiny study-turned-makeshift-bedroom.

But for now, Patrick watches from the window, watches Jonny pull up in one of those expensive electric cars, probably one of the first shiny new things he bought with his ELC money. Patrick’s heard an iteration of that conversation every year, isn’t looking forward to hearing it again.

He’s only got one suitcase, and Patrick is impressed for a moment, but that all goes away when he starts pulling out gear bags. Multiple gear bags. At least three, not including the stick bag he handles with annoying gentleness that makes Patrick roll his eyes.

The worst part is his stupid snapback, turned backwards. It’s dark with an obnoxious patterned bill, the Chicago Blackhawks logo stitched to the front. God, he’s such a tool. They always are.

He leaves the window, in favor of finishing off the tape job he’d left half finished on his bed. 

Jonny can wait, for as long as Patrick’s parents allow him to hide in his room.

 

~

 

Usually, Patrick can keep quiet during dinner, tuning out the small talk with this year’s protege while he eats quickly so he can excuse himself faster. His sisters love to talk, love to ask questions, so it’s easy enough to let them carry him, to let them soak up the attention so Patrick can sulk off without anyone noticing.

But not this year, Jonny notices before Patrick can even really start.

“Patrick, right?” Jonny nods, sickeningly bright, when he notices him at first. 

“Yup,” Patrick pops the ‘p’ sound, maybe a little rudely. His mom sends him a look from across the table. Whatever.

“You’re draft eligible next year,” Jonny says, and he doesn’t say it like a question, but yet he’s clearly waiting for a response.

“I am,” Patrick says without looking up.

“Patrick,” his mom warns, so he looks up at Jonny, smiles fake as ever.

“I’m gonna go first overall,” he singsongs, cocky and arrogant and intentionally rude.

Patrick’s mom makes a face, but Jonny cuts in, laughs bright like it’s the funniest joke he’s ever heard. It confuses Patrick, and his mom, too, but then Patrick’s dad joins in and the mood is instantly light again. 

“Sorry,” Jonny finally manages, but he’s still grinning, not sorry at all. “It’s just, you remind me a lot of myself.”

Patrick makes a face, because that’s not what he expecting and certainly not what he was going for. But his dad’s beaming, like it’s a proud moment, so Patrick goes with it.

He shrugs. “Cool, I guess.”

Jonny just winks at him.

 

~

 

“You should join us, today,” Jonny says over breakfast, a couple days later. 

“I have my own ice time,” Patrick hums. “My dad’s not the only coach around here. It’s a hockey town.”

“I know,” Jonny keeps pressing. “But it’d be cool if you joined my session. Could use the company.”

Patrick narrows his eyes, continues to put jam on his toast, even though it’s already well-covered. He takes a bite, never breaking eye contact with Jonny. “Didn’t you come out here for one-on-one training? Like, isn’t that the point?”

Jonny shrugs. “I came here to get better at what I do, to  _ be  _ better. Doesn’t hurt to have someone come along for the ride.” 

There’s jam that sticks to Patrick’s chin, so he wipes it with the back of his hand, tactless. 

“You’re an NHL guy,” Patrick counters, once his face is clear again. “I’m just a hopeful.”

But Jonny doesn’t let it go, levels him with a serious look. “I’ve seen your tape, Patrick. I think you’re capable of keeping up.” He pauses, then his face changes, he gets a little airy. “If you’re up for the challenge, anyway. It’s not for everyone.”

And,  _ oh, _ that’s dirty pool. Patrick glares at him, knows exactly what game he’s playing. There’s no winning here, no outs where he doesn’t lose, in some way or another. 

“Fine,” Patrick crosses his arms. “I’ll be there.”

 

~

 

Patrick drives himself to the rink, even though he sees Jonny and his dad pull out of the driveway approximately two minutes before he walks out the door. Jonny’s car is still parked in the garage, next to Patrick’s, and it takes every ounce of self control in his body to avoid “accidentally” knicking it with his gear bag. 

This is a peace offering, he has to behave.

That’s what he keeps trying to tell himself, anyway. It’s not very convincing. 

By the time Patrick makes it to the rink and gets suited up, Jonny’s already working on some drill with his dad, going again and again and soaking up whatever it is that Mr. Kane’s shouting at him. It’s been a while since Patrick’s had a real session with his dad, but he knows exactly what it’s like to be on the other end of his barking. 

They don’t notice him at first, so Patrick does a couple laps on the other end of the rink, picks up a puck halfway through and lazily stick-handles it in complex little patterns, tugging it around the perimeter of the ice with him. 

“Patrick.”

And Patrick looks up, snapped out of his concentration by his dad’s Coach Voice, echoing in the otherwise quiet rink.

“Hey,” Patrick skates up to them quickly, perhaps just in hopes that his dad will stop making that face at him.

“I’m not going to lie,” his dad says once he’s close enough, “I’m genuinely surprised that you decided to join us for once.”

And, wow, that definitely hurts a little, and Patrick is about to say so, but Jonny steps in, cuts him off before he can speak.

“He actually asked if he could come, I really admire his drive,” Jonny says without missing a beat. “Wish I was like that when I was his age.”

Patrick doesn’t know what game he’s playing, doesn’t know what that save is going to cost him later, but his dad seems pretty damn pleased right now, so he takes the gift for what it is.

“Draft year and all,” is what he mumbles, shrugging when his dad gives him a look.

“Well,” Mr. Kane accepts it, moves on. “Then let’s do some drills.”

It’s a little weird, getting coached by his dad alongside some guy who’s already in the NHL, but Patrick goes with it, tries to learn a few things. Most of them are about his hockey, his play.

Some of them are not.

 

~

 

Jonny’s actually kind of great.

And that’s the problem.

Patrick doesn’t  _ want _ to like Jonny. He’s one of his dad’s pet projects, which inherently makes him unlikable. Which  _ should _ make him inherently unlikable. But somehow, Jonny has taken some kind of interest in Patrick, be it a curiosity or just general politeness, and it’s getting on Patrick’s nerves. 

So grabs his stick and his gloves and takes all his feelings out on the fence in the backyard. After all, hockey’s always been his preferred method of anger management. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s out there, shucking pucks into the wood and finding satisfaction in every dent and mark he leaves. There’s plenty of marks from the years and years before, unremarkable in relation to each other. But somehow, each and everyone one is a unique timestamp, a placeholder of sorts, that marks some point in Patrick’s life. No matter how big or small, it’d been important enough for him to come out here and do this.

Which means that Jonny is —

Nevermind.

Patrick’s collecting his pucks so he can go again, so that’s how Jonny must find him, crawling around in the overgrown grass, dragging around a bucket full of pucks.

“What’re you up to?”

And Patrick startles, already clutching a handful of pucks. He glares up at Jonny, mildly annoyed. This is supposed to be his time to blow off steam by himself. Steam built up because of Jonny. So who does he think he is, crossing that line.

“Stuff,” Patrick grumbles, petulant.

But Jonny does let up, leans comfortably on a tree and shoves his hands in his pockets, like he has all the time in the world. 

“You do this a lot?”

Patrick sets back up and continues like Jonny hasn’t totally crashed his session. He starts shooting again. Hard. “I do it enough.”

Jonny pushes off from the tree and walks over to him, stop just behind him. “Your form’s a little off. Here.”

He reaches around Patrick, pressed up behind him until he can fully reach Patrick’s forearms, just enough so he can reposition him. 

Patrick can feel Jonny’s breath on his neck. He tenses as soon as he feels it, as soon as he feels his own breath catch, his own heart speed up. As soon as he  _ reacts. _

But if Jonny notices, he doesn’t do anything about it. He continues to rearrange Patrick, front pressed impossibly close to Patrick’s back. 

And Patrick lets him, of course. Maybe it’s because he’s still internally panicking, maybe it’s because this is what he’s wanted, didn’t expect to have. It’s kind of ridiculous, how something so small can affect Patrick like this, but it is what it is 

Jonny is what he is.

“You’re good, but if you do this,” Jonny pauses, readjusts Patrick’s elbow, “you’ll have a little more control.”

Patrick takes the suggestion, focuses on the hockey part. It’s hard, because he’s simultaneously trying not to think too hard about the way Jonny feels, the way he smells, but also desperately trying to commit it all to memory. So he can recall it later, when he’s alone in his bedroom with Jonny just on the other side of the thin walls. So he can savor it, in case it’s all he’ll ever get. 

Jonny’s hand falls to Patrick’s hip, rests there. It snaps Patrick out of his thoughts. He winces automatically, then immediately regrets it. 

He’s about to say something, about to  _ do _ something, but Jonny’s already pulling away. Patrick turns until he can face him, look at him, but Jonny’s expression is completely neutral, void of anything negative, yet void of anything that had been there before.

“Anyway, I think dinner’s almost ready,” Jonny says, bland. “I’ll see you inside.”

He turns and goes, leaving Patrick alone and spinning. 

 

~

 

If it were up to Patrick, the grind would never stop, but his dad is a firm believer in balance or whatever, so Patrick spends his Sundays completely hockey-free, pretending to be a normal kid that does normal summer things. 

There’s not a lot to do in a small town in Upstate, but he makes do. He has his summer friends, sometimes his cousins. There’s the lake and the boat, and usually someone who can get the hookup for a case or a handle of something awful, but something that’ll surely get them all drunk enough. 

So that’s how Patrick spends his Sunday, spread out on the dock with a can of warm PBR, cheeks rosy with the mingling of summer heat and cheap beer. It’s kind of gross, the air is heavy with the scent of the lake, smattered with the waft of sweat and sunscreen, but it smells like summer, nonetheless.

“You’re going to get burnt.” And that’s Erica, looming over him, hands on her hips. Her shadow falls over his face, blocking his view of the water.

“Then let me,” Patrick retorts.

Erica shrugs. “I’m just trying to look out for you.” She navigates around him until she’s at the edge of the dock. Her only warning is a sly look over her shoulder. Then she jumps straight in, going out of her way to splash.

It hits Patrick, of course, drenches him. 

“Son of a—”

“Language!” Erica sing songs, grinning from where she’s treading in the water. She ducks her head back underwater, comes back up and leans her head back, hair falling behind her. 

Patrick’s going to yell at her some more, but then there’s unmistakable footfalls from behind him, shaking the dock. And, yeah, that’s a horde of girls, Erica’s friends, only just catching up to her.

“Wow way to wait up, Erica!” One of them, Stephanie, yells after her. But, while the rest of Erica’s friends jump into the water — effectively drenching Patrick further — Stephanie hands back, looks at Patrick curiously.

“Waddup Pattycakes,” she hums, looks him up and down.

Patrick sits up, shifts a little uncomfortably. 

She crouches down until she’s sitting beside him, legs folded under her, poised in the perfect posture to draw attention to the right places, to draw attention to her bikini, the curve of her waist. 

Stephanie blinks at him through long lashes, smiles just a little at the corner.

“Steph,” Patrick say, a half-hearted greeting. “Aren’t you going to jump in, too?”

She shrugs. “Eventually. But I wanted to say hi to you first.”

Patrick knows what she’s doing, even if he doesn’t quite understand why she has to change her voice, why she has to talk all low and heady like that.  

“Well, hi,” Patrick says, then stands up, grabs his towel and wraps it around himself, effectively covering up. “Nice to see you but uh, I gotta get going.”

He doesn’t wait to hear what she says, already halfway down the dock. 

It’s still prime hours, so Patrick isn’t too keen on heading back home just yet. Leave it to Erica and her friends to ruin his perfectly fine spot on the lake. He’s mostly dry by now, thanks to the heat, but his hair is still dripping, curls matted against the back of his neck, his forehead.

He wanders the perimeter of the water, more or less aimless. It’s sunny enough that the water shimmers in the light, the blues and greens fading in and out together. It’s a nice compliment to the grass and the trees, bright at the water’s edge.

Patrick doesn’t know how long or how far he’s wandered, but he knows he’s long gone from the dock, far from his family’s property. 

So he’s reasonably surprised when he sees Jonny, shirtless and doing some kind of stretch of sorts in the grass.

It’s weird, he  _ knows _ it’s weird, but he stops and watches for a while, watches the gleam of sweat glistening over Jonny’s muscles, skin stretched taught as he stretches out, switches poses. Patrick’s figures it’s some kind of yoga, probably some cooldown regimen he keeps for his off days.

Might not be hockey, but the grind never stops. Patrick can admire that.

“I don’t think this is what my dad meant by off day,” Patrick finally speaks up, once he realizes he’s been lingering for maybe too long. Jonny startles at first, but visibly relaxes, warms, when he sees Patrick.

“Don’t tell Coach, but,” Jonny grins, “no such thing as an off day.”

Patrick shrugs, pads down into the grass, off the pathway, to join Jonny. He drops his towel off to the side and reaches up and up, stretches out his arms, his shoulders. Jonny watches appreciatively, doesn’t try to hide it. 

Unlike with Stephanie, Patrick soaks it all up, even as he feels his face heat, knows his ears have likely turned pink.

“Care if I join you?” Patrick hums, already knows the answer.

“I don’t mind at all,” Jonny affirms. Then grins, a little too devilishly. “Just try to keep up.” 

Patrick huffs, but laughs, too, just as bright and sunny as the day itself. “Don’t worry about me, focus on yourself.”

It’s easy and light, Jonny stretching out under the sun like it’s where he belongs. Patrick isn’t happy with himself, but he can’t help being happy about  _ this _ . About Jonny. It’s just them, doing whatever the hell they’re doing, and for that reason alone, Patrick thinks he could stay here, like this, forever.

Jonny looks over at him, catches him staring. Patrick is about to go bright red, incredibly embarrassed, but then Jonny just smiles, genuine and real in the way that it reaches the corner of his eyes, and every anxiety melts away, leaves nothing but the feeling of butterflies against Patrick’s thumping heart. 

Eventually, they wind down, tired out, but loose and languid. Jonny falls into the grass first, starfished out in the plush of it. Patrick follows his lead, kneels in the grass until he can stretch out, lay back, arms folded comfortably under his head. 

“Did you always think you were gonna make the NHL?” Patrick finally says, a little wistful.

“Sure,” Jonny says. “Just as much as any other kid.” He pauses, turns until he’s facing Patrick. “But honestly? Sometimes I still can’t believe it’s real.”

And really, it doesn't feel real at all. Nothing outside of this grassy little patch feels real, because this is the realest  _ real _ that Patrick has ever felt. It’s a lot to process at once, especially with Jonny looking at him like that.

“Sometimes I can’t even believe I’m here right now,” Jonny adds, then looks at Patrick, pointed, with something meaningful, something in his eye that Patrick can’t quite read, but something that he feels, completely and wholly. 

“I—” Patrick starts but stops, not even sure what he wants to say. He wishes that he could express the way he feels, put it into words, but there’s no way, no words, that could ever do these feelings justice.

It doesn’t matter, because Jonny sits up, hops back up to his feet. He’s back to his regular carefree self, the moment broken.

“Come on,” Jonny says, holds out a hand to help Patrick up. “We’re going to be late for dinner.”

Patrick takes his hand, hauls himself up. He leads the way home, back along the waterfront, the sunset glimmering in reds and oranges that melt into each other as the water laps at the edges. They don’t really talk, but it’s not completely uncomfortable. 

There’s just something about Jonny, something about his presence, that makes Patrick feel so at ease. 

It’s infuriating.

 

~

 

Erica tries to set Patrick up with Stephanie, and it’s not really a surprise to anyone involved, but it’s more or less a general nuisance where Patrick’s concerned.  

There’s a simple solution here, the one where Patrick just tells her that he’s not interested, but Patrick can’t bring himself to do it, doesn’t even want to think about the impending fallout. 

So, like most of his problems, he just ignores the whole situation until goes away. 

Unfortunately, Stephanie doesn’t really go away. She’s kind of persistent. Which, in any other light, Patrick would really admire. After all, she’s a nice girl, he likes hanging out with her whenever Erica brings her around. Which makes it that much harder to turn her down.

It’s getting to the point where it’s more than obvious, where it’s common neighborhood knowledge. It’s a small town, where everyone knows everyone, where everyone knows everyone’s business. 

Where Jonny is included in “everyone” and Jonny knows Patrick’s business. 

It’s almost easy to stop liking Jonny, maybe even to dislike him again, with the way he can’t stop teasing and chirping, always about fucking Stephanie. 

It’d be so much easier to just go with it, to just hate Jonny and move on, to focus on hockey and forget that Jonny exists. But Patrick can’t. And not in the same way he can’t with Stephanie. It’s the type of physical inability, like there’s something that won’t let him, like a part of him insists that this is set in stone, with or without Patrick’s permission. 

“Heard you were late to skate yesterday. Stephanie?”

Patrick so badly wants to hate Jonny. 

“Couldn’t find my keys,” Patrick brushes him off.

“Oh, because you left them at Stephanie’s?”

“No,” Patrick stops what he’s doing, just so he can properly glare at Jonny, who’s lounging around with his stupid book, looking at Patrick all smug. He knows exactly what he’s doing, knows exactly what buttons he’s pushing, what he’s doing to Patrick.

“Because I couldn’t find them in the mess you leave around my goddamn house,” Patrick spits back, probably meaner than he meant, meaner than necessary. 

But Jonny is unphased, continues to flick through his book. “Then maybe don’t leave your keys in my messes.”

Patrick rolls his eyes, dramatic. Jonny isn’t watching so he huffs. Jonny isn’t listening. So Patrick, boiling, slams his door, turns on his heel, and yells into his pillow.

Fuck Jonny and fuck Jonny’s stupid face. 

 

~

 

Patrick doesn't care if his dad gets on his case about it, he spends as much time on ice as he can. And then he goes home, goes straight to the basement, and continues there, working until his wrists are sore and he’s falling asleep where he stands. 

It’s stupid, anyway, getting so wrapped up in summer drama like this when he’s got the most important season of his life ahead of him. When he’s got the  _ draft _ looming over his head. None of this other stuff matters, not when the NHL is waiting for him. 

Patrick books the rink at max for the fourth day in a row. He is both surprised and unsurprised to see Jonny there, standing in front of the gate and staring him down. Waiting for him.

“Fuck off,” Patrick bites, not in the mood for the bullshit. “I don’t care what order my dad gave you, it’s my ice, I booked it.”

“Balance,” is all Jonny says, crossing his arms. He’s frowning, and it’s something that Patrick’s not really used to seeing on Jonny’s face. It’s wrong, it doesn’t belong there.

But Patrick’s too annoyed to care, not right now

“You’re the one that does mom yoga on your off days, the fuck do you know about balance?” Patrick tries to shoulder past him, but Jonny doesn’t budge, effectively blocking him. 

“That’s because it balances your  _ head _ ,” Jonny says, like it’s obvious and Patrick is stupid. “Which is obviously fucking you up.”

“Fuck you.”

“See?” Jonny shoves at him. “You need to clear your headspace. Reset and shit. You’re too worked up.” He stops, sighs, the aggression leaving him all at once. Then, softer, “You’ve got to relax.”

Patrick makes a face, but he’s suddenly aware of the tension in his body, the buzz, the restlessness coursing through him from head to toe. There’s a part of him that reasons  _ yeah, maybe Jonny’s right _ , but the rest of Patrick processes that information and gets even more upset.

Mostly because he hates that Jonny’s right. 

“Why are you so up my ass?” Patrick says, not necessarily giving up the fight but giving up on trying to shove past Jonny, his resolve slipping as he simmers. He’s almost certain that Jonny notices. Because he’s an asshole like that.

“Because you have so much potential,” Jonny hisses, and it’s the first time Patrick’s seen him so raw, so out of grasp of himself. “Because you’re going to be  _ good,  _ don’t you know that?”

That’s not exactly what Patrick was expecting, not at all, really, so it catches him off guard. There must be a moment where all the fight in him is paused, a moment where the aggression is gone, because Jonny sees the opportunity and seizes it.

“You wanna be the best? One on one, right now. Let’s go.”

And that snaps Patrick back into it. He narrows his eyes. “One on one? I have real shit to work on, Toews. I’m not wasting my ice time to play games.”

Jonny laughs, mirthless, disbelieving. “Hockey’s a game, at the end of the day.”

“Maybe to you,” Patrick spits.

“You really think like that?” Jonny looks him up and down. “Because if you do then that’s your problem.”

“My problems aren’t your problems.”

“Don’t you love the game?” And it’s a little more desperate, the exasperation laced into the accusation there. It’s not even like Jonny is upset, it’s like he questioning something, it’s like he’s unraveling something and trying to figure it out. 

That’s the part that gets to Patrick. That’s the part that makes him mull it over, the part where he finally gives, even if just a little. 

“Of course I love the game,” he says, so sure in his words. “I love it more than anything. Anything.”

That seems to satisfy Jonny, even if he gives him a weird look at first, one that he hides as quickly as it comes. But then he’s back to himself, his usual airiness, as if nothing else had happened. He steps to the side, no longer blocking the gate, nods in the direction of the ice, pointed.

“Then let’s play.”

“Okay,” Patrick finally agrees. “Let’s play.”

 

~

 

One on one with Jonny is more fun and games than anything skill-based. Sure, it’s a challenge, playing against someone who’s made it to the NHL, someone who already has “Calder Nominee” on their very own Wikipedia page. A few more years of experience goes a long way. He’s skilled and well built, knows the game on another level. He’s plenty good at reading the play, at reading  _ Patrick _ , by now. 

Well, maybe the last part isn’t so much an experience thing, perhaps more of a Jonny-and-Patrick thing. 

He can read Patrick like an open book, like he’s already seen his next move with time to spare. Like he’s already looked at every option and subsequent outcome, analyzed, until he’s found the absolute best option. 

It’s frustrating for Patrick, who’s been spending hours and hours and hours, pouring every last ounce of his efforts, his sweat and his blood, into developing himself, developing his game. 

If it were anything else, Patrick would be out, would be fed up, over it, done with it. But it’s not just anything, it’s hockey. And Patrick will never give up when it comes to anything adjacent to hockey. Even if it’s just a stupid, unnecessary scrimmage that he didn’t want anything to do with in the first place. 

Hockey is all Patrick has. He’ll take it as seriously as he wants, all other circumstances put aside. 

Patrick quickly figures out that Jonny’s outdoing him in some way or another and that if he’s going to make his comeback, he’s going to have to up his game, change something up. 

If Jonny wants to play  _ mind hockey _ then Patrick isn’t going to back down. 

At some point, Patrick gets with it and starts flipping his game; whatever it is that he would usually do, he does the exact opposite. If he thinks he should shoot, he dangles. If he thinks he should veer left, he goes right. 

If he thinks he should, he doesn’t. 

It works for a while, a couple goals for Team Kaner, until Jonny catches on and changes up whatever mind technique he’s got going on. 

Patrick’s quicker to adjust this time, content to forgo everything he knows to just play, raw and unabashed. To feel the game from his core, to bend and twist as he needs, rhyme and reason out the window and pure instinct following instead. 

That seems to does it, seems to sift through Jonny’s games and breakthrough until it’s pure hockey, a matched one-on-one that goes  _ hard _ .

Patrick loses track of who wins, but cellies just as hard as a good win.

“And how do you feel now?” Jonny finally says, when they’re headed back into the locker room, soaked in sweat but yet somehow still feeling at their peak.

Patrick grins.

“Like the best.”

 

~

 

By the time Sunday finally rolls around, Patrick already knows what his plans are, who his plans include, whether those “who”s know about said plans or not. Patrick has a feeling that he does know, though, just because his favorite game is reading Patrick like an open book. 

And Patrick is right, because when he goes to that little patch of shady grass, hidden along the edge of the lake, Jonny is already there and doesn’t look surprised to see him at all.

“Mind day?” Jonny grins, cheeky.

Patrick rolls his eyes, because even if Jonny’s proved himself correct about off days, he isn’t any less insufferable. But still, Patrick eventually shrugs, at least once he’s close enough to claim his own section of too-tall grass, unceremoniously kicking away the stray twigs and things scattered in it. 

He kicks off his slides, pulls at the neck of his tee-shirt until its slides off over his head, joining his shoes in a scattered mess of to the side. Right next to Jonny’s.

It’s been a few weeks since Patrick first found Jonny here, had first sat and stared, admiring the way Jonny looked, shirtless and glowing under the beam of the sun, not a care in the world. It’s been a few weeks but it’s still just as intense, still has the same effect that it had on Patrick the very first time.

“Following your lead, Toews,” Patrick hums, swinging his arms out, front then back then front then back. 

“Keep up,” Jonny grins, says it just as he always does. 

It’s a new wave of motivation, whenever Jonny presents his task of the day as a challenge. It’s not even that Patrick is usually like this because he’s not, contrary to popular belief, but it’s something about the way Jonny says it, the way Jonny makes it sounds like Patrick  _ can’t _ , that makes him go and go and go until he’s exceeded Jonny’s shitty expectations. 

(It’s like he wants to prove himself to Jonny, to show Jonny that he really  _ is _ worth it.)

Even now, when Jonny’s teasing little “keep up” is more of a chirp, a signature, it still wakes Patrick up. Still gets him going.

So Jonny starts off his stretches, graduating from standard pre-workout to simple poses. It’s leisurely, paced only by heart, smooth and easy and nothing that Patrick has to “keep up” with. 

But then Jonny shifts it into the harder stuff, the stuff that requires increible concentration and precision just to hold onto it, hold onto the stretch, for more than a split second. This is the endurance, still very much physical, but more so, the endurance of the mind, the heart. 

This is the part that Jonny flies through with ease, leaving Patrick floundering after him, just barely keeping up. 

The strain of it, even if it’s nothing out of the ordinary  _ physically _ , is enough to get Patrick coated in sweat, curls matted against his forehead, and left panting for breath.

Jonny’s good about it, though, talks him through it until he gets it, nails it. He doesn’t tease, not when they’re doing this kind of stuff. He’s nothing but good and genuine, pushing Patrick’s limits until they give, pushing Patrick until he can be better, until he  _ is _ better.

Until he can be the best.

But eventually, the sun starts to set over the water, rippling in distorted patterns, messy but beautiful. Stunning, nonetheless. 

(And it’s funny because, when Jonny stops to stare for just a second too long, that’s how Patrick — with his hair all over the place, face ruddy red, covered in sweat — looks, too. Messy but beautiful. Stunning, nonetheless.)

Jonny shifts them into a cooldown without missing a beat, slowing the high-intensity stuff until it’s toned down, stripped down to poses, then stripped down into simple stretches.

Eventually, they’re starfished in the grass, shoulder to shoulder. They’re both still lightly panting, erratic, yet rhythmic to each other, perfectly fit together in a messy cadence, rough but so incredibly in tune to  _ them _ .

Pretending to watch the sunset, they each steal their fair share of poorly hidden glances, stolen but sketched into memory, something waiting for them, when they come back for it later. 

Taking a picture might last longer for some people, but not for Jonny, not for Patrick. Not when it feels like this. Not when it feels every ounce of unforgettable.

But, with so many stolen glances, it’s only inevitable that they overlap. They turn at the same time, Patrick almost smacks Jonny in the nose with his own.

“Oh,” Patrick’s eyes go wide, poised so close to Jonny’s, so incredibly clear and big and real. Jonny blinks right back, emulating so much  _ awe, _ so much intrigue. Patrick’s breath catches, a skip that Jonny’s sure to have noticed. 

Patrick doesn’t know what comes over him, doesn’t know why he thinks it’s right or appropriate, doesn’t know why he just  _ does _ , doesn't know why he doesn’t think. 

Because Patrick leans in and in and in. Patrick kisses him.

Jonny doesn't move at first, stunned, and really is just Patrick kissing Jonny, while Jonny is shock still, not reacting. But then something must click, a switch must flip, because then Jonny’s hands are in his hair, are running up and down his arms and his back, are cupping his cheeks, his chin, and kissing him deeper and deeper.

They pull away only when they absolutely have to, when Patrick starts to blue, ducking out for a gasp of air, despite how much everything screams at him to keep going, to take and take and take, whatever he can get, because there might never be another opportunity.

Maybe those parts of him are right because something in Jonny changes, changes  _ back _ , to shock and astonishment and, as Patrick’s heart sinks, regret. 

Fuck.

“Patrick I—” Jonny stops, then starts again, a shitty attempt at level, but calmer than the first. “We can’t do this.”

Patrick wants to argue, wants to yell and kick and scream, wants to tell Jonny off and make sure he knows how  _ shitty  _  he makes Patrick feel when he does shit like this and then breaks him down, tears him apart with his bullshit.

Patrick wants to do something, but he’s frozen, embarrassed. 

Jonny starts to say something again, starts to reach out, to touch Patrick’s shoulder, maybe, to console him. But Patrick won’t have any of it, doesn’t know if he can take it if Jonny starts talking, starts giving him reasons or whatever. 

So he does the first thing that comes to mind. 

Gets up and runs.

 

~

 

It’s kind of dumb because Jonny literally lives in the room next to his, adjoined by the bathroom they share. It’s a sad attempt at evasion, they’re both fully aware, but Patrick goes with it anyway, locks his bedroom door and blasts Eminem as loud as he can.

Jonny gives him space, at least for a little while. But that’s short-lived because eventually, he knocks and calls out Patrick’s name, but Patrick pretends he doesn’t hear. 

“You can’t avoid me forever,” says Jonny from the other side of the bathroom door. Patrick’s done a pretty shitty job of avoiding him, but he’s nothing if not stubborn. He’ll even admit it himself. 

“Is that a challenge? You know I like challenges.” Patrick calls out from his bed, where he’s cocooned in his blanket.

There’s a light thump against the door, and, judging from the shadow in the crack under the door, it’s probably Jonny setting up camp, just as stubborn and just as persistent.

Patrick usually admires that about him. What a backfire.

“If you want it to be like this,” Jonny trails off, voice still muffled through the wood. 

Groaning, Patrick throws an empty water bottle at the door, just hard enough to make a sound, to emphasize his point. “Fuck you, leave me alone.”

“Do you really want that? Because if you really want me to leave you alone, I’ll leave you alone.”

Patrick doesn’t answer right away. Partially because he’s thinking it out, partially because he wants to make Jonny sweat it out. 

But in the end, Patrick cannot lie to Jonny, not about this.

He carefully unravels himself from his blankets, quietly pads over to the door.

Jonny startles when Patrick opens it, just a creak. He was leaning on it, so he falls a little but catches himself, looks up at Patrick, wide-eyed.

“Oh.” Jonny blinks.

Patrick sighs, “I  _ don’t _ want you to leave me alone.”

And then he shuts the door again.

Jonny thinks he should be more confused than before, but somehow, he thinks he gets it.

Somehow, he thinks he gets Patrick.

 

~

 

It’s a few days before Patrick’s ready to speak to Jonny again.

He doesn’t preface it with anything, doesn’t give Jonny any kind of warning. He just marches up to him at the rink, taps Jonny’s shins with his stick, and nods at the ice.

“One on one?”

Jonny freezes for a minute, a little surprised, but quickly tries to hide it. He doesn’t hesitate any further.

“Of course.”

They play, they go hard, and they leave it all on the ice.

They’re wrapping up, all the frustration and tension long gone, sweated out in every move, every shot, in their little scrimmage. It’s light now, just for fun, just for the opportunity to pull a smile out of one another. To hoard moments together, making up for lost time.

It’s easy and it’s natural, when Jonny’s got Patrick in a headlock, helmets thrown off in their play-fight. It’s easy and natural when Jonny swoops down without missing a beat, captures Patrick’s lips with his own, and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him.

This time, he doesn’t try to take it back.

 

~

 

Once it starts, Patrick can’t stop. 

He can’t help himself, starving and greedy, taking as much of Jonny as he can get. Every waking moment, every free second, he presses himself as close to Jonny as he can get, traces every curve of him, takes in every scent, every feature. 

If Patrick could study Jonny forever, his body and mind, he wouldn’t hesitate, not in any universe. 

He learns a lot about Jonny, about what he likes, what pushes his buttons, what gets him hot and bothered and flushed. He learns what turns him on, what gets him off.

But Patrick also learns a lot about himself, about what he likes and who he is. About how he sees the world, how he feels, how he can bend and twist, yearning until he’s fulfilled.

He learns about love, even if he never intended to.

And Jonny’s right there, in the journey of him, of them, right at his side.

 

~

It doesn’t hit Patrick until Jonny’s already all packed up, bags lined up at the door and all traces of him plucked from the Kane household. 

It doesn’t hit Patrick until Jonny’s going over his travel plans with Mr. Kane at the dinner table, arranging the times he’ll need to be dropped off, where he’ll be keeping his car, when he’ll be back to pick it up and if there will be time to grab lunch in a final farewell. 

A final farewell. 

Patrick pretends he didn’t hear that part. 

Not that he’s even trying to hide it, but his sulking must be obvious, because his mom speaks up, gestures toward him. 

“Patrick, why don’t you go with Jonny?”

And Patrick looks up at that, eyes wide. He looks to Jonny, first, who doesn’t look surprised at all, just as smug as usual, like he knew all along. 

He probably did, that asshole. 

“Would that be okay?” Patrick asks, even though he already knows the answer. 

“Absolutely,” Jonny says before anyone else can, “I’d be honored for your company.”

“Wonderful,” Mr. Kane says, grinning. “You’ll have an amazing time, I’m sure.”

Patrick nods, can’t stop smiling. He keeps meeting Jonny’s gaze, a silent conversation that he doesn’t completely know the details of but hears the general idea loud and clear. 

Two more weeks of Jonny, borrowed time, still ticking down, but precious, nonetheless. 

Patrick won’t waste it. 

 

~

 

It’s disgustingly romantic, cheesy and cliche.

That’s the thing about the east coast, it’s every romance novel come to life, peachy sunsets and crystal blue waters. It’s everything that Patrick’s sisters have dreamt of.

And a little bit more.

It’s not like Patrick hasn’t seen Jonny like this before; relaxed and completely carefree, he means. It’s not like that at all, but there’s something different here, when hockey’s on pause and it’s just the two of them.

Jonny isn’t completely unrecognizable, but out in these small towns, people either don’t know or don’t say anything. They’re still them — just Patrick and Jonny — of course, but it’s different when they can be  _ Jonny and Patrick _ , completely uninhibited and without hesitation. 

They’re at the beach, sun hot and high in the sky. It’s not totally private but it might as well be, the next house isn’t for at least a mile. There’s no one else out here, just Patrick and Jonny and the beach.

Patrick feels sticky and gross in a mix of sweat and sunscreen, but it’s fine because Jonny is just as disgusting and he somehow still looks as incredible as ever. 

He’s covered in a light sheen, glowing, as he usually does, and it makes Patrick think of the first few moment he had of Jonny, the ones that were so carefully stolen. It makes Patrick think back on ridiculous it was retrospectively, when Patrick has this, has  _ Jonny _ , all for himself now.

“Stop thinking so loud,” Jonny hums, reaches over and brushes Patrick’s curls back with his sandy hand.

“Hey,” Patrick protests, immediately tries to shake the sand from his hair. “You asshole.”

“Your favorite asshole,” Jonny hums, just a hint of suggestion, barely there.

Patrick picks up on it nonetheless, face flushing immediately. 

It’s exactly what Jonny was going for, because that’s how Jonny is, pushing and teasing until it’s just enough to pull something out of Patrick, to coax him into accepting his feelings at full force, to accept Jonny, to accept  _ them _ . 

But then Jonny, in full control, manages to flip it and surprised Patrick again.

“I love you,” he says, whispered soft but firm, backed in intensity and truth and everything that is Jonny. 

Patrick shivers, sure that his face goes even more red, however impossible.

“I love you, too,” Patrick says, with just as much vigor.

And then Jonny grins. He rolls over until he’s hovering over Patrick and kissing him and kissing him until they can’t breathe.

 

~

 

They spend a few days in New York City, visit a few specialists to work on skating or stickhandling or stretches. 

It’s a lot riskier here, even if they do tend to blend into the crowds. It’s more likely that they’ll be spotted and recognized here than the in tiny marina towns where they were able to make out on beach.

Still, Jonny manages to get a private room at some high-rise restaurant, one of the swanky ones that overlooks the city, sparkling in lights that span forever into the horizon. It’s a breathtaking view, accompanied by dimmed candlelight.

“They were willing to sign the NDA,” Jonny shrugs, when Patrick looks around wide-eyed. “I know it’s not really our thing but, I don’t know, I thought we might as well go all out?”

He’s a little tentative, like he thinks there’s actually a chance that Patrick would reject all of this, would tell him anything except that he loves it, just because Jonny did it for him.

So Patrick laughs, shakes his head, then leans in, kisses Jonny sweet on the cheek. 

But it’s not just date nights, it’s dumb videos on each other’s Instagram stories, impromptu Q&A’s on Patrick’s Insta-Live. It’s chirps on twitter and dumb comments threaded into social media.

It’s enough for media to grab onto them, to start stringing together a feel-good narrative, the one where legendary Coach Patrick Kane Senior takes in a budding young NHL star, who in turn, pulls Patrick Junior under his wing. It’s the perfect hints of next year’s draft, the perfect push.

They do just enough media together for it to be A Thing. It’s easy in New York, where there’s enough NHL writing going on, enough people willing to make it out there and catch their story.

By the time they pack up and head back to Upstate, there’s already a form of “Jonny and Patrick” circulating. 

Perhaps not quite in the way they’d like, but plenty there, written into some kind of history. Their history.

It’s a beginning of something, even as their clock dwindles down more and more and more.

It’s an end, but it’s a start. 

 

~

 

There’s a lot to be said about goodbyes, but Patrick doesn’t quite want to hear them. 

It hasn’t hit him, the fact that Jonny’s done here and is going back home, miles away. Going back to the NHL where Patrick hopes to one day meet him, but can’t count on it, can’t  _ promise  _  it.

They can’t promise anything, and Patrick wants to ignore it so fucking badly. 

He wants to talk to Jonny about it, wants to spill all his fears and feelings and everything that he’s bottled up. He knows he should, knows that it’s the adult thing to do, but he  _ can’t _ . He can’t bring himself to acknowledge that their clock’s run out, can’t face the reality of their mortality.

He tries, he really does try.

If not in words, in writing. He opens a notebook and jots out his goodbye letter, his “I love you” letter, his “feelings” letter, and all his love wrapped into it. But nothing he writes is quite good enough, nothing he says properly expresses what he needs Jonny to know.

His wastebasket fills quickly, full with crumpled excerpts of Patrick’s heart.

It’s not enough but he finally settles.

It’s easy to sneak into Jonny’s room through their shared bathroom, easy to open his suitcase and tuck the paper between his neatly folded clothes.

It’s easy but it’s the most difficult task of Patrick’s life

 

~

 

Patrick isn’t home when Jonny leaves for good, and he won’t admit if it’s purposeful or not.

He gets back late at night, procrastinating the inevitability of a quiet house, of Jonny’s side of the bathroom cleared and Patrick’s original bedroom returned to him with all traces of Jonny gone, like he’d never even been there at all.

Except, when Patrick pushes open the door, there’s something carefully set on the center of the bed; a hat, a familiar stupid snapback, dark with an obnoxious patterned bill and the Chicago Blackhawks logo stitched to the front. 

There’s a sticky note under it, with nothing but “for Patrick” scrawled out in Jonny’s messy handwriting. 

Patrick doesn’t cry, he’d never cry, he  _ won’t _ cry, he—

He wipes away the tears before they can fall. 

 

~

 

Jonny said he’d keep in touch, and he does, for a while, anyway.

There’s long iMessage threads and three hour FaceTime calls and snap streaks that grow bigger and bigger. But then the season starts and Patrick’s in London and Jonny’s all over the continent, doing big things with the Hawks. 

He calls on Patrick’s birthday, and it lasts for nearly an hour, but it’s the last time he calls. For a while, anyway.

There’s never a conclusion, not a real one, but Patrick knows, Patrick can feel it, feel the way they fizzle out, the sparks slowly dying out against Patrick’s will. It hurts, of course it hurts, but it’s a dull ache that grows and grows and grows until it’s all that’s left.

So maybe it isn’t a surprise when Deadspin and Barstool start circulating rumors that Jonny’s seeing a girl, some model or whatever, tall and leggy and blonde and very much not Patrick.

Maybe it isn’t a surprise when Jonny finally confirms it.

Patrick pushes away whatever feelings he has about it, has about Jonny. Locks those feelings away until he can ignore it and just focus on his hockey.

He doesn’t have time for distractions, anyway. 

Not when he’s going to be the best.

Not when he’s going to be better than Jonny.

 

~

 

Patrick’s tried his best to ignore the mock draft rankings, has tried his best to try and convince himself that it doesn’t mean anything when he gets invited to do the draft lottery video call, when he gets to go to the top prospect Cup Final game. 

He knows realistically that he’s going to the NHL no matter what, he  _ knows _ that. It’s everything’s he’s ever wanted, has ever dreamed of, has ever wished for and worked for. It’s been his only goal, his only  _ consistency _ , since he can remember.

His draft day has always been marked, has always been the ultimate countdown, the day that’s supposed to be the best day in his life. 

Patrick’s always said that he’ll go first overall, ever since peewee, ever since he put on skates for the very first time.

But then the Blackhawks pull for first pick.

And Patrick’s heart drops.

Of  _ fucking _ course.

 

~

 

There’s enough time between the draft lottery and the actual draft for Patrick to mentally prepare himself, to practice his game face and his media smile. There’s actually lots of media already, questions about his game, if he thinks he’ll make the first pick, if he thinks he’s worth all the hype. 

Questions about Jonny.

The media hasn’t forgotten their little East Coaster, hasn’t forgotten Jonny’s tenure as Coach Kane’s summer protege. There’s a story there, and every sports writer wants it, wants to build something up around their chemistry and the possibility of it being brought over into the NHL. 

Patrick puts on his best smile, recites the lines he’s practiced into the mirror.

“Me and Jonny got pretty close last summer,” he says through his teeth, not necessarily a lie. 

And again, “we get along pretty great.”

Or, “it was great to be able to play and train with him.”

None of these are lies, but none of them make Patrick feel as good as he tries to make it seem.

His sessions in the mirror must pay off, because the media eats it all up. People come asking him, asking his agent, if there’s any pictures of Patrick and Jonny they can use, asking if there’s any anecdotes, anything they get their hands on for this.

Patrick does his best to politely decline, to steer the narrative back to Patrick Kane, to  _ hockey _ , and away from  _ Patrick and Jonny _ . 

He discreetly tells this to his agent, too, asks that he not mention it to his parents. His agent gives him a weird look, weakly tries to argue that it’s better for him, but he eventually agrees and assures Patrick that he’s on his side, that he’ll do what he can.

So there narrative is still there, because it’s too good of a story not to push, but it’s as contained as Patrick can hope for.

Besides, it’s good enough prep.

Good enough for when Jonathan Toews, of all people, is invited to stage and calls, from the London Knights, Patrick Kane.

He hugs his parents, puts on his practiced-smile — the one he knows fools almost everyone, everyone but Jonny — and pulls the Hawks sweater over his head.

Patrick smiles for the camera and tries not to inhale the familiar scent of Jonny’s cologne, tries not to lean into the familiar touch of Jonny’s hand at his back.

Tries to steer his own narrative.

And if he tries hard enough, he can almost convince himself.

Almost.

 

~

 

Jonny goes up with him to the family lounge, after waiting for him while he does his draft pictures, when he does media. He has the audacity to smalltalk him, to do the whole “team welcome” spiel, probably his first official task as Captain.

Patrick knows that Jonny isn’t fooled, but he plays along, eyeing the rest of the team staff, obvious enough for Jonny to see.

He catches it, acknowledges it, but he still goes through all the pleasantries, hugs Patrick’s parents and talks hockey with his dad for a while. He asks about this summer’s protege, but Patrick’s dad smiles all sly and reveals that he hasn’t taken in anyone except for Patrick himself. 

They both look toward Patrick, then, just to catch his reaction, to reel him into the conversation. It’s true, Jonny’s the last of Patrick’s dad’s proteges, for now, at least, while Patrick’s getting NHL-ready. It’s tough and a lot of pressure.

Not because he’s Coach Kane’s son, but because he’s following in Jonny’s direct footsteps.

But Patrick pointedly ignores them, pretends he didn’t hear. He keeps his back turned, drinks his water just so he has something to do with his hands, with his mouth.

It must mean  _ something _ , finally, because it isn’t much longer until Jonny’s pulling Patrick aside, a discreet hand at his elbow, but firm and insistent, nonetheless. He leads him to a corner around a bend, where no one else is around, where no one else can overhear them.

“Are you alright?” is the first thing Jonny says to him, directly to him, for the first time in months.

Patrick laughs, dry and mirthless, at the irony. 

“What do you even care?” Patrick shrugs his arm off. “Look, I don’t want make this into a huge thing but—”

“What’s your problem?” Jonny cuts him off, crosses his arm. 

And Patrick snaps, because  _ what the fuck _ . “What do  _ you _ think, huh, Jonny? What do you think my problem is?”

Jonny opens his mouth to say something but Patrick doesn't want to hear it.

“I’m not talking about this right now,” he says, heat radiating from his words. “Today’s my day and I’m not going to let you ruin that, too.”

He doesn’t wait around, shoves harshly past Jonny. He won’t let him take this away from him.

Forcing a smile, he goes to find his family.

 

~

 

Patrick doesn’t find the note until he’s back at the hotel, hanging up his suit jacket. It’s sticking out the pocket, almost unnoticeable. When he pulls it out, it's generic hotel stationary, a little crumpled around the edges. Patrick's confused for a moment, but then he sees the letters penned onto the paper and realizes immediately. He'd recognize that scrawl anywhere.

 

_ Me and you. Kane and Toews. Patrick and Jonny.  _

_ You ready? _

 

~

 

By the time training camp rolls around, Patrick’s only got one thing on his mind: hockey.

But if he manages a hesitant smile in Jonny’s direction, — no promises, no  _ anything _ , just… just a tentative okay, a caution, an acceptance of a “for now” and a “not forever” — he won’t deny it.

He doesn’t say much to Jonny, doesn’t say much to the media. But he’s so incredibly confident in what he does.

Patrick leans into the bouquet of microphones and recorders. Looks Jonny straight in the eye.

“I’m ready.”

He grins.

  
  
  
  
  


.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Ah okay so I know it's not totally like the CMBYN movie because I took SO much freedom with this but I hope you enjoyed my take! Interpret the ending as you will ;)
> 
> And of course, a HUGE HUGE shoutout to ATB for all the work put into hosting and organizing Reel 1988! ♡
> 
> also come find me on twitter @[pinkmanite](https://twitter.com/pinkmanite)!


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